


Sharing the Past With the Stars

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 19:25:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15103346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: A little quick offering for Enjolras/Feuilly week on Tumblr.On the anniversary of his father's death, Feuilly seeks out a friend. Enjolras and Feuilly talk about the past as they walk through Paris, discussing their families and learning new things about one another.





	Sharing the Past With the Stars

Feuilly finds Enjolras alone in the back room of the Musain. He intended on being here earlier, but got caught late at work on a larger than normal order. Paint stains his hands, the joints of his knuckles aching from the careful, intricate work over such long hours. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame for a moment and studying Enjolras. His friend sits in a chair, leaning closely over whatever he’s writing on the table, a book laying open next to him. Ink’s splattered across Enjolras’ right hand, his eyes narrowing as he stops writing, clearly thinking about something. His overlong fair hair is tied back—Courfeyrac both teases him and admires the effortless length—a piece slipping out and framing his face. Enjolras tucks the stray piece behind his ear with a huff of annoyance, as if he can’t be bothered with his own hair. This action shifts his gaze just enough that his eyes flit upward and he jumps, realizing he’s not alone.

“Feuilly!” Enjolras exclaims, his eyes going comically wide. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Feuilly chuckles. “Apparently not. Just you then?”

“Prouvaire, Bahorel, and Courfeyrac were here earlier,” Enjolras explains. “But they were going to a party of some sort. It sounded like it was going to be…quite an event.”

Feuilly steps fully into the room, watching the sun vanish below the horizon outside, replaced with the night. Truth be told, he came to the Musain because he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be alone, tonight; today is the anniversary of losing his father, and it weighs heavily on him, as it usually does. He doesn’t spend a great deal of time talking about it with his fairly new friends, and this is honestly the first time he’s sought out company for the purpose of talking about it on this particular day. In years past he’s gone for a drink with others who live in his building, or people he works with just to be around others and not in his own head, but he never mentioned why.

Tonight he…well he feels like talking to someone.

When he joined this society a little less than a year ago, he hadn’t been sure what to think. He remembers feeling a pull toward Enjolras even as he didn’t know what to make of him. Enjolras is reserved and charming all at once, stern and yet possessing an endearing, disarming smile that makes you trust him quicker than you might want to.

So here Feuilly is, trusting him.

Enjolras gestures him over, a fond smile on his face. “Come. Sit down.”

Feuilly feels an itch to walk, but he sits down first, unsure if he wants to bring up what today is, or how he feels about it, even if that exact impulse drove him here.

“What are you working on?” Feuilly asks, nodding toward the paper.

“A brief explanation of our society’s aims for Bahorel to read at one of his other gathering places,” Enjolras explains, frowning at the document as if the words on the page have offended him. “It’s not quite right yet. Of course Bahorel will burn it when he’s done, so we don’t leave any trace. Perhaps it’s silly to put so much effort, but I…”

“Want to make yourself clear,” Feuilly finishes. “I understand. The better the message, the more people we have in our ranks.”

Enjolras nods, a contagious brightness in his blue eyes. “Exactly.” He tilts his head, looking at Feuilly in that piercing, discerning way of his. “Are you all right? You seem restless.”

Feuilly drums his fingers on the table, anxious, suddenly, that he’s disturbing his friend and his work. “Actually I was thinking of taking a walk and I…well I wouldn’t mind company.” Feuilly bites his lip. “But I don’t want to disturb you.”

“I’m happy to walk with you,” Enjolras answers, quicker than Feuilly expects.

Enjolras gathers his belongings, packing his papers and his book into his bag, which he pulls onto his shoulder with the grace Feuilly’s grown used to, and yet at which he still marvels. Enjolras is oddly graceful in everything he does, down the smallest gesture.

He does have an ungraceful laugh, sometimes, when someone’s said something so terribly amusing that a chuckle or a smirk won’t do. Feuilly’s seen Bahorel and Courfeyrac draw that sort of laughter out of their reserved friend, watching an unbridled joy cross his face.

They go through the hallway and down the stairs, leaving the back room behind them before escaping into the autumnal Parisian evening. Feuilly loves Paris, though sometimes he _doesn’t_ love the stench of urban life. But tonight there’s a perfume of wine and flowers and freshly baked bread lingering in the air. The stars are diamonds in the black above them, the crescent moon lending a mysterious glow to the buildings surrounding them. They walk in contented silence for a short while, a cool breeze curling around them, as if encouraging Feuilly to talk to his friend as he intended, rather than letting his anxieties get in the way.

“Today’s the anniversary of my father’s passing.” Feuilly’s voice cuts into the contented night without preamble, because otherwise he might not say it at all. He and Enjolras certainly never run out of topics to discuss. “I…I do not usually say anything to anyone about it, even if I seek out company. But I…well I felt like telling someone. It seemed a good way to honor his memory. I want to be better about that.”

Enjolras puts his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking thoughtful, and somehow this small thing endears him to Feuilly further. He hadn’t trusted Enjolras at first: a wealthy only son of a family with old money and connections? That wasn’t the sort of person he ever knew or befriended, simply by wont of his early social circles. Feuilly worried, initially, that the politics and the talk of revolution was just that: talk. Plenty of students play at revolution, saying they want to change the world. Especially wealthy ones. They _all_ live under an unjust monarchy with little say in the affairs of the country, they _all_ have something invaluable to gain from a more democratic form of government, but Feuilly hadn’t been sure if someone like Enjolras might risk it, if things got difficult, or if it meant sacrificing for people who were more vulnerable to the neglect of the current regime.

He learned quickly that Enjolras _would_ risk it. He learned quickly that the desire for change was more a part of Enjolras than anything else, aside from his deep, abiding love for their friends. Enjolras had been eager to learn, as well. Eager to expand his mind. He listened, a more uncommon trait that one might think, even if he was stubborn sometimes.

“I’m glad you felt you could speak to me,” Enjolras says, drawing Feuilly from his thoughts. “I feel honored you would.”

“Enjolras…” Feuilly complains good-naturedly, feeling his cheeks grow warm at the unabashed, earnest praise directed at him. “It’s not all that.”

Enjolras shakes his head, fond. “Do you want to talk about what happened to him? I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned, directly. Just that both your parents had passed on.”

Feuilly pauses, sliding his hands into his pockets, anxiety flowing into his veins. He breathes in, but he can’t quite make the words emerge.

“It’s all right,” Enjolras says, clearly thinking he’s overstepped his bounds. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you’re uncomfortable.”

Feuilly shakes his head, giving Enjolras a quick smile. “No, it’s not that. I’m sorry, I’m just not used to speaking about it, I suppose. Though I feel like I owe all of you that. We’ve been friends long enough, and I trust you.”

“You don’t owe us any story or explanation you aren’t comfortable giving.” Enjolras speaks softly, looking up at the stars, more visible in the Parisian sky than usual. “That’s not a requirement for our friendship.”

“I know,” Feuilly whispers. “Still, I’d like to talk about it.”

Enjolras nods, indicating he’s listening, and Feuilly finds it easier to talk as they walk along, heading without words toward the Seine, in the vague direction of the Pont au Change, which is about a half-hour’s walk away.

“I’m more like my father than my mother, I think,” Feuilly begins, watching the moonlight turn the water between the paving stones silver. “He was always so…jovial? He laughed like some combination of Courfeyrac and Bahorel.”

Enjolras chuckles, his deep fondness for their friends evident in the small sound. “So limitless, then?”

“Yes.” Feuilly inclines his head, grinning. “He had a beard Bahorel would be jealous of. The same auburn color of my hair. Anyway, my mother was more reserved. Warm, but shy, you know? We were happy.”

“How old were you when they died?” Enjolras asks, and Feuilly doesn’t hear the usual pity in his voice he so often does from others, just real empathy.

“Eight, when my father died,” Feuilly answers. “Nine, when my mother died less than a year later.” He stops, glancing over at Enjolras for a moment before continuing. “We were robbed, you see. I suppose the perpetrators thought we weren’t home, but when they discovered we were, they stabbed my father. He lasted a few days, but not longer. We couldn’t really afford much Laudanum, to help ease the pain.” Feuilly hears the anger lining his voice. “We only had a bit, and it wasn’t enough.”

Feuilly looks up at the feeling of Enjolras’ hand on his arm, offering what comfort he might, but not yet speaking.

“I think the hardest part for me was seeing my cheerful, happy father cut down like that.” Feuilly sees the image in his mind’s eye, doing his best to replace it with a happier memory. “That’s what bothers me most, on this day. My mother died a few months later. Pneumonia. And grief, I think. That might sound silly.”

“It doesn’t,” Enjolras replies. “Combeferre and Joly have both said they think that possible. And they would know.”

Feuilly smiles again. “I don’t know why, but I just…I felt like speaking to someone about it. I appreciate you listening.”

“You miss them.” Enjolras quietly slips a hand into the crook of Feuilly’s elbow, his grip firm but not overly tight. “I understand. I think they’d be proud of you. I didn’t know them, but you’re an excellent citizen, and a generous person. Boundlessly eager to learn and to help. I’m sure in part due to their influence. They sound like kind people.”

Feuilly blushes again, but he doesn’t brush away the compliment. “They were. My father, he used to complain about Bonaparte. A little too loudly in some places, for my mother’s taste, though I know she didn’t like him either. No better than a king, they said.”

“So you come by it naturally.” Enjolras smirks, a little of Courfeyrac in his expression.

“I suppose I do,” Feuilly says, pulling his cap off his head and fiddling with it. “It feels better. To talk about it with someone, on the anniversary. It feels less…heavy. Grief is a funny thing. My feelings vary from year to year, and this year I just felt like trusting a friend with it. I’m glad I stumbled across you in the Musain.”

Enjolras squeezes the crook of Feuilly’s elbow, still holding on. “So am I.”

“I found myself on the street for quite a while after that,” Feuilly continues, surprised at how forthcoming he’s being, attached to his privacy as he is. “For a couple of years, until I ended up in a home with other boys like me. I enjoyed companionship. Craved it. But I always had a hard time opening up about the most personal things, even as I encouraged people to open up to me. I’m working on that.”

“I’m sorry all of that happened to you, Feuilly,” Enjolras replies, utterly sincere, and it doesn’t make Feuilly feel that odd form of almost embarrassment he often gets when he’s tried to speak about this in the past.

Enjolras sees him as a person, and not just some sort of walking tragedy.

He certainly isn’t the only tragedy in Paris.

There are too many tiny tragedies scattered around the city. Too many little children running around without parents. Without love.

He wants to do his best by them.

“Thank you, Enjolras.” Feuilly hears the sound of the river as they grow closer, taking comfort in the familiarity. “You’ve said you don’t get along with your father? You don’t have to answer.”

“No, that’s all right, I don’t mind.” Enjolras removes his hand from Feuilly’s elbow, moving to brush a stray piece of hair from his eyes, the gold strands caught in the starlight. “We don’t get along terribly well, anymore. It wasn’t always this way but we…we argue a great deal now, I’m afraid.”

Feuilly tilts his head. “Over politics?”

“Over politics,” Enjolras echoes. “Or…well more over tactics, I suppose. My father’s no real royalist, and he certainly wasn’t when he was younger, so my mother says. He’s more of a _don’t disturb things or you might end up in danger_ , sort of person. He’s grown more conservative as he aged, and I’m honestly not sure why. In any case, he doesn’t like a lot of my stances, or more importantly my actions.”

“Does your mother?” Feuilly asks. “I’ve heard you speak fondly of her.”

Enjolras smiles at some kind of memory Feuilly can’t see, touching the edge of his waistcoat and making Feuilly wonder if his mother sent the garment from Marseilles.

“My mother is supportive, if concerned,” Enjolras answers. “I can understand why, though I’ve certainly never been a mother. But she was raised by an American mother and a father who fully supported the French Revolution, so she couldn’t ever be anything but a republican, really. My grandmother is…a bit of a firebrand. An American heiress who moved to France for love. My father’s always teasing her about being _new money_.”

Feuilly laughs at Enjolras’ sarcastic tone. That world seems so far away from anything he’s ever experienced, but Enjolras is so down to earth Feuilly forgets his background sometimes.

“We used to close, my father and I.” Enjolras’ voice falls into a wistful whisper as they reach the river and stop in their tracks. “I do miss it. A great deal, sometimes. But I can’t give this up for him. Even if he might ask it of me.”

Feuilly gestures to a nearby bench and they sit down, watching the moonlight glinting off the Seine.

“Do you think he might give you an ultimatum?” Feuilly asks.

Enjolras glances over, holding Feuilly’s gaze. “I’m not sure. I do suppose I’ll find out when I’m home at Christmas. Aubry and Flora Enjolras are famous for their Christmas parties. Combeferre’s pledged to come with me, this year. Though it took some agreement with his family that he would come home for Easter, or…something of that nature. I think he’ll enjoy debating with my grandmother.”

“What’s her name?” Feuilly presses Enjolras’ shoulder fondly, eager to hear more.

“Violet.” An amused grin spreads across Enjolras’ face. “I’m sure she’ll get me into some sort of trouble, while I’m home.”

“The best trouble, it sounds like,” Feuilly responds, aching a little at Enjolras’ stories of family.

But then, he realizes, they are all each other’s family now, too. The nine of them.

He isn’t alone.

He pushes away the memory of his father’s last few days, days full of pain and grief, replacing it with images of his father shaking as he laughed, heartily amused by a wry joke Feuilly’s mother told.

They would have liked his friends.

Perhaps somewhere out there, wherever their souls rest, they already do.


End file.
